


A Miraculous Meeting

by VictoriaBlaze



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alcohol, Depression, Mild Language, References to Illness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-19
Updated: 2020-07-19
Packaged: 2021-03-05 02:00:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,460
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25376563
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VictoriaBlaze/pseuds/VictoriaBlaze
Summary: Victoria Blaze, a young woman struggling to come to grips with her own lacklustre existence, discovers a certain Soho bookshop through a series of minor, somewhat miraculous coincidences.This is Victoria's introduction, which she gives herself.Content Warning: Adult language, alcohol, mature themes (depression, illness)
Kudos: 2





	A Miraculous Meeting

(1)

Soho never really was my scene but it was Tessa’s, and as she had the down payment for a flat while I was still desperately trying to escape the stranglehold of mid-twenties poverty, I had no real say in the decision. That was the most succinct way to describe my friendship with her: conviction meets disadvantage. I would like to say we were close friends since primary school, sharing in the inevitability of growing up and what all that responsibility did to a person over time. The very unromantic truth was that I met her my first year at uni, pissed in a pub toilet and trying to dislodge her stiletto heel from a broken floor tile. God help her, she was a mess back then.

Personal ruinations aside, we were genuinely well-suited for each other. I’ve always had a collected, responsible head on my shoulders. She always had money and know-how, or found people who had money and know-how. Typical exploits played out where Tessa suggested something ludicrous, I found a rational middle-ground, and then she went with her original plan but leaned enough towards sensibility to appease me. But, just as Tessa needed someone practical to keep her grounded, I needed someone lively and a little fearless to move me forward. She was my current, and I was her keel. Together, we sailed along nicely. Most of the time.

It wasn’t long after we’d gotten the flat and I’d started my first ‘real’ job that I felt the wind diminish from my mainsail. I was supposedly progressing down the path of proper adulthood, but I still felt anchored. Working the front end at a moderately busy hotel in Leicester Square was far from… anything, really. Far from exciting, glamorous, productive, or motivating. I could always wriggle into that unflattering swimsuit of employment-seeking and dive head-first into London’s toxic-waste-laden job pool, but that damn anchor was so heavy. Why bother putting the energy into lifting it simply to set it down in another shoal of discontent and be miserable there instead? Regarding employment, Tessa believed I expected too much from the whole thing, and that work was what made us money, not what made us happy. Personally, I believed Tessa drank too much.

Typically, I worked from 5 a.m. until 2, a time of day when nobody really needed a hotel, in my opinion. Mostly I gave relief to those coming off their shifts, ran damage control, and checked out beleaguered, jet-lagged tourists. My uniform was bland, my co-workers were frustrating, and the coffee was terrible. When I was hired on, I was told that the main benefits were all of the travel opportunities the job would afford me. Think of it: discounts on rooms and services at any one of our sister hotels across Europe! As a young, naïve first-timer to the job market, that sounded like peaches. And then a year later when I still hadn’t quite found the time or money to go back home to Cambridge for the holidays, let alone travel the world, I realized how much of a sucker I was. Three years after that and I was still there, answering phones, passing out toothbrushes and towels to disgruntled guests, and hoping that one day I could still visit Rome, or Burges, or anywhere really.

What I wouldn’t give to have just done… something.

\--

“It isn’t all that serious, is it?” I asked, trying to sound composed. My father sighed, a bad sign.

“Not yet, but it could very well be soon if she doesn’t get it out of her system.” He sounded tired.

“How soon is soon? Should I come home? I… I can figure something out.”

“No, no, I don’t think it’s quite that bad, Tori. The damn thing just won’t leave her be. This is the third time she’s been to hospital this month,” he grumbled in a way that I knew more intoned his feelings towards the medical industry as a whole and less his feelings towards the infection.

“I know, I’m just worried.”

“So am I, love. But if your mother says she’s fine and doctors are saying to ‘ride it out,’ then what is there for us to do, really?” I always loved how practical my father was. Calm and placid like a shaded pond, unruffled by circumstance or speculation. I was more like my mother in the sense that I not only worried more than was prudent for a single person, but felt it necessary to carry the worries of others, too. Even troubled animals and complete strangers on the internet weren’t safe from my insatiable, over-protective tendencies.

My father said something, but my mind had disconnected from my ears. “Huh? Sorry, I was somewhere else.”

“I said ‘have you been taking care of yourself at least’?”

“Ah…” I chuckled awkwardly, looking around at the pyramids of responsibility stacking up wondrously around my room. Clothes, dishes, paperwork, cat detritus, rotten flowers. A shrine to exhaustion and executive dysfunction.

“That would be a ‘no’ then.”

“I didn’t say that. I’ve just been anxious about mum is all. Haven’t really thought about myself much.”

“You’re in good company, then. It’ll be all right. She doesn’t want us fussing over something that hasn’t happened yet, so let’s just buck up and pull through together, eh?”

“Sure, dad.”

“Right. Get some sleep, it’s late.”

“Yeah. Night.”

He made a contented sound and clicked off, and I knew in his mind he was certain he’d made me feel better. Tossing my phone onto the bed, I lowered myself to the floor with a gut-churning sigh. Originally, mum had gone to hospital for a fever that wouldn’t break, and while she was there she’d picked up a nasty intestinal infection. If treated quickly enough it was nothing too terrible, but with its vexing persistence and her already dodgy health, I couldn’t help but find myself fretting all the time.

Aunt Shelly came out last week to visit her, bringing odd treats and nostalgia from Wisconsin. Mum was American, and aside from the politics on that side of the family, I liked them all well enough. They thought of her as a bit of an odd duck, having gone to England for school and stayed because of ‘socialist brainwashing’. There was no malice or anything tied to it, just a good solid ribbing for Dad any time we visited them. Aside from Aunt Shelly, they never came out here.

Finch melted off the ottoman by my desk and wove his way between the stacks to my side. He thunked his head against my thigh and chirped at me. Reflexively, I reached out and scratched his twitching black ears.

“Good boy,” I muttered, my eyes sliding out-of-focus as I ran circles around the thought of mum. The soft form next to me chirped again and I shook my head free from its race.

“What?” I grumbled. He started to purr. “You’re not getting any more food tonight. It’s almost 2, you’ve had enough.”

My persistent black cat blinked his huge azure eyes at me, his muzzle transfixed in an obvious, serene smile. Exhaling roughly in frustration, I reached over to the desk and grabbed a crinkly bag of soft treats. Stars filled his eyes as I opened it and shook a few salmon bites onto the floor. Noisily, he lapped them up.

“Don’t say I never did nothin’ for you,” I muttered in an awful facsimile of a Brooklyn accent. Climbing into bed, I pulled the duvet up and cradled my phone by my face. I silently chastized myself for playing idiotic games and rotting my brain with social media instead of reading before bed. The internal banter felt like habit now instead of an actual hope or promise of self-improvement. I checked my digital haunts for any signs of life without feeling. A distant cousin that sold makeup ‘for a living’ liked a picture. An old classmate that still considered me a friend despite us not having spoken in years commented on a status I’d written.

“This isn’t helping…” I muttered angrily. It was time I ceased the false narrative of ‘maybe tomorrow’ and actually did something to make my heart better today. Pulling up Maps, I lazily swiped in ‘bookstores near me’ and started looking. A few of the results genuinely made me smirk: Treadwell’s atmospheric occult bookshop, Any Amount of Books for first editions and hard-to-find, Soho Original with rare magazines and erotica. Furrowing my brow, I closed my eyes tightly. I could always just go to Foyles, but I didn’t even know what book I wanted. Something to help me fall asleep. To forget, for a time.

Swiping up, my thumb landed on a listing I hadn’t noticed before. A.Z. Fell and Co., Antiquarian and Unusual Books. The associated image was a slightly blurry snapshot from the street view; it appeared to be a darling little corner store with a rich chestnut-red exterior, lovely large windows, and smooth Doric columns on either side of a welcoming door. Curious, I did a quick search for it and found nothing. No pictures, no articles, only a link to a web page that was pure white with a message box in its centre. Above it in soft, kind-looking letters read ‘Queries may be submitted here in advance.’

I blinked in confusion. Quearies? Like requests? Was this a live chat, or direct-to-email? Awkwardly, I thumbed a submission:

“Sorry to trouble you at this unholy evening hour, but I’ve had the worst time falling asleep of late. Is there possibly a warm, wholesome adventure book that you could recommend to help me wind down? I’m fairly open with my taste in literature.”

Tapping ‘send’, I realized how much of an idiot I must have sounded. My heart sank into my gut. There was probably some old codger on the other end that checked the business’ email once a month when his son came home to visit. Why was I acting like-

A chat window popped up on the right, edged in gentle gold. Friendly text read, “It really depends on your definition of ‘wholesome’. You might enjoy The Tea Master and the Detective, by Aliette de Bodard. It’s space opera, with sentient ships, and a distinct nod to Sherlock Holmes. Or there’s always anything by Mister Pratchett, of course.”

My mouth hung slack. Firstly, how in the world did this stranger know exactly the sort of book that would pique my interest without any inkling of my tastes, and secondly, what in the hell were they doing awake and very clearly awaiting messages at two in the morning? My finger flitted like a figure skater across the screen. “That sounds like it will do the trick! Do you happen to have it in your lovely shop, or do you typically deal in older texts?”

“Alas, most of my books are of a more historical nature. If you’re local, though, feel free to pop round and I’ll see if there’s anything else that might suit you. The door is locked, but I’m about if you rattle the letterbox.”

My chest seized and I nearly closed the window. Everything about this suddenly felt too near to a sketchy man in a trench coat offering free sweets. I took a breath and read over the text again. At second glance, it was clear that the bookseller hadn’t meant to be improper, but that didn’t change the time of night.

“Not tonight, 2 a.m. is hardly the time to be stepping out for a trip to the shops. I greatly appreciate your kind invitation, however. I’ll have to head to the library tomorrow, but I’m sure you’ll see me in at some point. I’m quite a history lover as well.”

“Oh, yes. That late, isn’t it? Silly me. One gets so caught up in paperwork.”

A smile splintered across my face. It felt so unfamiliar that it surprised me. My heart pained.

“I imagine that as a bookshop owner, all of your work is paperwork, isn’t it? Let’s hope we both manage to find some sleep soon. I will follow up on your recommendation this weekend, thank you.”

“Do sleep well, my dear. I’m sure you will.”

As the last golden letter flicked up on the screen, a deep, soulful yawn climbed through me and washed over my face, slipping my eyelids down in sudden, pressing fatigue. My mobile dropped from my hand onto the floor as my body sagged. Without another worry or question, I drifted off into a deep, other-worldly sleep.

\---

The following morning was a haze. Having passed out suddenly and then reawoken just as abruptly two hours later, I was certain that the day ahead would be filled with dripping, painful exhaustion. I’d anticipated needles at the back of my eyes, lead feet, pounding head, and a distinct slump from the weight of my insomnia and bad decisions. Rather I felt none of those, but instead bore a strange, persistent fog across my consciousness. A half-remembrance of something I’d needed to do, or a conversation I’d had but put aside to recall later in the shower.

Pulling the cigs from my bag, I leaned half-way out my window and gazed blankly at the black morning around me. There were cars and people and so much still going on. Not for the first time I wondered how many of those shaded figures below hadn’t yet finished their day’s work. Finch hopped up onto the sill beside me with a chirrup. Blowing my smoke to the streetlamps, I flashed him a grin that awkwardly stretched a bevy of infrequently-used muscles.

“You can eat now, My Dark Prince,” I mock-scowled at the furball. He purred on, filled with the self-importance that came standard in all cats. I twisted my cigarette in my fingers and pointed it at him. “Let me finish my dance with death and then I’ll deal with your stomach, all right?”

Another chirp told me I had a few minutes of peaceful smoking before he started in on the ottoman. The morning routine had officially begun: smoke, cat, shower, dress, shoes, keys, forgot the wallet - must go back for the wallet - and out the door towards the first link in the chain to my anchor.

The hotel was just under a fifteen minute walk from my flat, but I felt a deep, distressing need to leave as soon as I could. Nothing was properly open at this hour - no worthwhile breakfast to grab, at any rate - but there was something itching the bottom of my feet. It was an urgency to find whatever I was missing before I’d fully forgotten it. Taking out my phone, I opened up my active programmes and saw that ‘Maps’ was running. Confused, I tapped it and brought up a listing for A.Z. Fell and Co. with its address and single, slightly blurry picture. Something felt off. Why couldn’t I remember looking up this place last night?

Throwing an awkward glance over my shoulder, I hit ‘Directions’ and waited. The app briefly showed me a winding path towards Greek Street and a five minute walk time before it crashed. I furrowed my brow in frustration and sighed. ‘Must be needing an update,’ I thought, heading the way it seemed the glitchy app was trying to point me. Opening Maps up a second time, I went to ‘Recently Searched’ and physically lurched to a stop. The last item was for ‘thai restaurants near me’. No bookshop. No address.

“What…?” I breathed. A strange feeling of alarm flushed down my spine. Running a hand across my hair, I tried not to panic as I stuffed my mobile in my pocket and legged it to work. For the first time since I moved into the flat, I critically examined every building around me on my walk, hoping to find a shade or silhouette close to the image I only half-remembered. I arrived at the Premiere Hotel disappointed, hungry, and ten minutes early.

Colton was at reception when I stomped into the lobby. They were just over twenty and not quite over their terrible teenage haircut. Genuine fear lapsed from their face into relief.

“Oh good, you’re here!” they exclaimed. I took a deep breath and briefly closed my eyes. They were new to the ‘team’ and already much more trouble than they were worth.

“Doesn’t mean I’ve clocked in, I’ve only just arrived,” I mumbled, still frustrated over the mystery of the disappearing bookstore.

“B-but…”

“Listen, you’ve been here two months now! By this point, you’ve handled almost everything that you would need to be trained in. Honestly, can you please let me caffeinate before you force your overnight leftovers on me like you do every single shift?” My chest heaved. Why was I so wound up over this stupid situation?

The edgy-haired youth winced and then jumped out of their skin as the phone rang, complexion flooding the colour of wallpaper paste. Reaching a quivering hand out, they snatched the phone off its base and held it out for me.

“Please, I’m literally begging you, Victoria. It’s -” A strange sound croaked out of them and it suddenly hit me.

“Right,” I sighed. “You owe me.”

With a sharp nod of agreement, Colton dashed off to do something undoubtedly important far, far away from reception. I thumped the receiver against my forehead with a groan before cradling it in my shoulder and pulling over a notepad. Though unpleasant to handle at any time of day, it was a certain hell to field a call from upper management first thing in the morning, especially as it was already clear this conversation would result in a surprise inspection. And me still without my coffee.

(2)

While my morning started at a sinister simmer, the rest of the day drug like cold honey in winter. The last of the management team left around five, releasing me from the shackles of answering endless questions while simultaneously attempting to do my typical duties as though the presence of several bombastic higher-ups wasn’t impeding my work flow in the least. Arching my back with a stretch and a pop, I started for the revolving doors. A small herd of Dutch travellers bounded enthusiastically into the lobby, washing me to the side in their energetic wake. With a sigh, I ducked through the main entrance and slunk away from the building. My mobile buzzed once in my pocket and I frowned. I knew I’d forgotten something. I pulled out my phone and slid my finger up to the lock. Eleven texts from Tessa. I was supposed to be at her pub by two thirty to help her get set up for quiz night.

Groaning, I flicked over to Contacts, swiped up, and then hit Call.

The line trilled.

“Swan and Crown?”

“Tess, I’m sorry.”

“Fucking right you’re sorry! Where the hell are you? You’re THREE HOURS LATE, Tori!”

“I know, I know. Surprise inspection from head office today. Been tied up for ages, I’ve only just got away. I’m sorry.”

Tessa sighed the sigh of one who realized they were accidentally being an asshole. “You really have rotten luck, don’t you.” It was a statement, not a question. We both knew I had a black streak the length of a football pitch.

“You truly are a fabulous friend,” I grumbled, unable to hide how put-out I was by her lack of bedside manner.

“I’m BUSY is what I am and you’re LATE. Get here, now.” She clicked off and I scowled gloomily at my phone. One of these days she’d appreciate all the extra efforts I put into our friendship and her stupid pub quizzes. Granted, I was helping her because she threw in for rent when I couldn’t quite meet my end of things, but I always paid her back eventually. Even still, I didn’t have to be there each week working for free after finishing with my proper job, enduring grating sports fans, obnoxious pop culture questions, and chummy drunken rivalry. I would like to think it was a sacrifice I made because of my affection for her and not an agreement based on my frequent misfortune.

I started for the west side of Soho with begrudged haste, hands crammed deep into my pockets and a distinct fizzing in my skull. The haze from last night still hadn’t quite left me, and it was really beginning to trouble me. I hadn’t been drinking, had I? I recalled talking to dad about how mum was doing, but everything after that was a wipe.

Breaking from the flow, I sheltered myself in a shop window and pulled a pack of smokes from my bag. Lipping one out, I slung my kit back over my shoulder and made to light it when something in the window display caught my eye. At first I just stared nonplussed at the artistically spread stack of books, then my eyes widened as the circuits lit up one by one in my brain. A distracted commuter passed and knocked my shoulder, pitching my cigarette onto the ground from my now slack-hung mouth.

“The Tea Master and the Detective,” I muttered, pressing my palm against the sun-warmed glass. “That’s… the bookshop…” Shaking my head violently to try to part the fog, I ran to the front of the store and burst through the doors. A conventional, corporate-approved interior sprawled lazily out in front of me, confusing me further. Embarrassed, I backed quickly out and looked up at the name over the door. I was at Waterstones on Piccadilly. Disappointed but burdened by determination, I went back in.

My fingertips felt electric as I snatched a copy out of the window display and stalked anxiously towards the till. At my turn, I placed the book down and eyed the exhausted-looking youth behind the desk with suspicion, still unsure if this wasn’t some prank or dream. I cleared my throat. 

“Is it good, this book?” I asked, trying to sound casual.

“Dunno. Haven’t read it,” the lad shrugged, bagging it in paper.

“Right. Me neither. Obviously.” I made an awkward noise. “Why a whole window for it? Is it new or something?”

The disinterested cashier sighed. “It’s not new; they found a whole box of them in the back this morning. Just clearing out inventory.”

“A-ah, I see,” I stammered, tapping my phone to the reader to pay. If the youth said anything else, I certainly wasn’t listening. Clutching the purchase to my thundering chest, I high-tailed it out of the shop and bolted for the Swan and Crown. By the time I made it through the evening pedestrians and traffic, the place was already alight with dinner activity. I hastily slipped the book into my bag as I tried to find an inconspicuous place to get Tessa’s attention. She was at her usual spot behind the bar, slinging cheap liquor and smiling like a cat with cream at the swarm of regulars. A waiter nudged past me and my flatmate finally glanced my direction. Her intensely furious expression cracked when she took in the sight of me. I must have looked as much of a disaster as I felt.

Calling one of the servers over to cover her, she ducked out from behind the bar and came to me, taking my shoulders firmly in her hands and pulling me aside. “What the hell happened to you? You look like death, are you all right?” she implored. 

I tried to nod, but even that seemed too much. Concerned, Tessa drew me into a strong hug. I sunk into her as the feelings from the last day all washed over me. The bookstore, the inspection, my depression… mum. Before I could stop myself, I pressed my face into her neck and started to cry. She hushed me comfortingly and rocked us both back and forth. 

“Oh, oh no honey, shuush, shuuush, you’re okay,” she soothed as gently as she could over the din of the pub. “Go home, Tori. Get rest. Marina took care of it tonight anyway. It’s okay.”

“Right,” I gulped, nodding and wiping my face. Taking my hand, Tessa drew me up to the bar and poured a shot of brandy.

“For the road. Now go home.”

Nodding again, I tossed it back and closed my eyes. No more tears. Not here.

Handing her the glass, I tightly gripped my bag strap and headed out the door. I took a winding route on my way back, letting my unsteady feet blindly guide me as my head swam with emotion. Was I going mad? Would I even know what that felt like if I was?

“Maybe I should talk to somebody,” I mumbled to myself, my feet slowing to a stop as I lost my energy and direction. Closing my eyes, I took in a deep breath and looked around. Was I still in Soho? The sea of people and vehicles felt the same, and the cafes and atmosphere seemed familiar enough. Why didn’t I recognize this street corner?

A bell shrieked at me and my gaze shot up, revealing in a split second that I was standing part-way in the lane with an oncoming cyclist bearing down on me. Yelping, I stumbled back and tripped on the curb. My tailbone hit the pavement with a thwack, shooting fireworks straight up my spine and into the front of my brain. 

“Son of a-!” I gasped, burying my face in my hands. Taking a long, calming breath to help myself fight back more tears, I finally dropped my hands and blinked the stinging sensation away. When it had gone and I could focus my vision, I was staring across the lane at a rich, chestnut-red building on the street corner, with lovely large windows and smooth Doric columns on either side of a welcoming door. Unbidden, I squeaked and scooted myself back into the middle of the walkway. People made affronted throat noises and stepped around me, eyeing me like I’d gone off and kicked a dog. With the help of the lamppost in front of me, I managed to hoist myself onto unsteady feet, my eyes locked in transfixed awe at the premonition before me.

Like a sailor to a siren, I drifted across the street and up to the doors of the bookshop. I reached out to the beautiful brass handle but faltered. There was a small sign in the glass of the door simply stating “Closed” in a tasteful, commanding typeface. I lowered my arm back to my side and stared emptily at the curtain, trying to fight through the sudden feeling of hopelessness cascading over me. Chewing my lip for a moment, I suddenly dropped to a knee and pulled my earlier purchase out of my pack. Ripping part of the Waterstone’s bag, I fished around for a pen and scribbled “thank you” in hasty, smudged letters on the scrap. I held my breath and hesitated, then with a small nod, lifted the post slot and pushed the note inside. A vision of a dark, warm cave of antiques and books shadowed by soft lamplight winked briefly at me. It made me shudder, but not unpleasantly.

Excited and unnerved, I stood sharply with a need to run. Stowing the book and tossing my pack roughly over my shoulder, I struck out in a direction I hoped lead me home, but that I at least knew for certain would take me away from the bookshop. Were I not so taken with my own preconceptions and fear, I would have noticed the curtain had drawn back just a tad at my departure.

  
(3)

“That’s just it. It’s the only explanation: I’m going absolutely crackers,” I gibbered through a mouthful of cold leftovers Tessa had brought back from her shift at the Crown. “I must do… I mean... Tess, am I? Be honest with me?”

Reaching over and thoughtfully plucking a few chips from my plate, my flatmate ruminated in both definitions of the word. She refilled our cups with cheap white wine and took a long drink. Finally, she set her panda mug down and pinned me with a knowing look.

“How have you been sleeping lately?”

“I’m being SERIOUS,” I growled.

“So am I,” she snapped back. “Yes Tori, if you want honesty, you sound completely raving. Shops don’t appear out of nowhere, books don’t stalk you, and creepy old men sit at their laptops drooling over weird porn in the middle of the night- not answering questions about LIGHT READING!”

I shot her an acidic scowl and picked up my own mug. It was a white thing with pink accents and the phrase ‘show me your kitties’ scrawled across it, framed by friendly cat ears and whiskers. I swallowed a bitter gulp. “It DID happen. All of it. I’m not lying, I just need you to tell me I’m not losing my mind. Please.”

“You’ve what, slept about two hours a night for how long now? Haven’t bought any real food for weeks and been smoking like a chimney? I don’t think you’re crazy, but you’re _making yourself crazy_. You get me?” She sighed and reached out, cupping her hands over mine. I stared down at them with obvious upset. “None of this is helping your mum, Victoria. Stop it.”

Closing my eyes, I took a long, rattling breath and nodded. “Y-yeah… All right. Sure.”

“You okay then?”

“Yeah.”

“You lying?”

“Only mostly,” I muttered with a rueful half-smile. “I get it. Yeah. I’ll… do better.”

“All I’m saying is sleep a little more and eat a piece of fruit for fuck’s sake,” she grumbled, nabbing another wad of chips and shoving them aggressively into her mouth. I couldn’t help but chuckle.

“Soon as there’s money in the bank, I promise you, I will eat a whole bag of apples.”

“I’ll believe it when I see it. Until then, finish your grape juice and go to bed, you idiot.”

We both laughed and relaxed then, draining the bottle before wandering off to our own little corners of the apartment. I dropped onto my bed like a lead weight and pulled my duvet up under my chin, smiling a drunk, fuzzy smile at my mobile. Conspiratorially, I murmured to the black screen: “I know I’m not… not mad. You listened to me, and you helped me. I… I know you did.” Dropping the phone onto a stack of bills by my bedside, my grin widened as I reached just beside it and pulled over my new book. It was time to start those changes we’d kept promising ourselves we’d make.

\---

Two delicate wine glasses rested on an old celestine end table, nearly forgotten now with a half-finished bottle sat between them. It had been that way for the better part of an hour as the pair sharing the wine had become too consumed in conversation to remember they were supposed to be drinking as well. On a nearby desk, a Victorian student lamp lit the room with a cozy glow. The flame bobbed ponderously beneath a cream-coloured glass shade, fed by a constant draw from an ornately-decorated brass kerosene reservoir. The little office space was cramped with stacks upon stacks of historic books, heirloom furniture draped in old - but clean - swathes of fabrics, luxurious rugs in brown, red, and gold, and curiosities tucked obsequiously into corners. Above all else, the whole of the bookshop felt deeply, profoundly loved.

The proprietor sat back in his second favourite chair: a worn but beautiful Queen Anne wingback, still with the original tapestry-style upholstery from the mid-1700s. He steepled his fingers and pressed them thoughtfully to his lips, his genial, honey-blue eyes turned to the far corner of the room in thought. His companion perched like a gaunt, suspicious corvid on the arm of a scuffed leather sofa, burning holes in the bookseller with his harsh serpent’s gaze. Frustrated, the darkly-dressed man with an equally dark disposition ran a hand through his fluffy red hair and growled.

“It’s just not a good sign is all,” Crowley muttered, standing sharply.

The bookseller brought his attention back to his guest. “I never intimated that it was. I was merely trying to impress that it’s a bit too early to cast judgements.” The demon shot him a patronizing grimace. ‘Judgement’ was not a well-received word by him. Aziraphale offered a small 'sorry' before clearing his throat and continuing: “Silence is not inherently bad, my dear. It just means-”

“What, hm? What does it mean?" Crowley interrupted, his temper flaring instinctually to cover his anxieties. "From my side it’s always bad, and from yours it’s much worse. I’d rather take an enemy that comes at you with a knife than one that stabs you in the back.”

“Heaven is not an enemy,” the angel reflexively protested.

“Fine, whatever, the bastards who run it then. Listen angel, we’ve felt them eyeing us every day since the week right after the almost-end-times, and now suddenly that’s all just disappeared, has it? No longer on their watch lists?”

“That doesn’t automatically make it malign.”

“Well it isn’t anything good,” Crowley snapped, seizing his wine glass and draining it. Scowling, he refilled his drink and unconsciously topped off the one beside it. Taking his glass with him, he sat back down on the arm of the sofa, bringing his heeled black boot up on the cushion as he leaned forward onto his knee. He took a thoughtful drink of the blood-red liquid and examined his companion critically. Aziraphale had been fiddling with something in the pocket of his waistcoat throughout the evening, and with enough frequency to distract the both of them.

The demon sighed, “Give it a rest, will you.”

“Hmm?” he noised absently. “Oh. It’s nothing.”

“It’s enough of a something that it’s starting to annoy me. What’ve you got?”

“Well, it’s just-” the angel withdrew a torn scrap of paper which was immediately snapped up by his tetchy friend.

“ _‘Thank you’_ ,” Crowley read aloud with mock-formality and a scowl. “What’s this then?”

“As I was about to explain, it’s genuinely nothing,” Aziraphale dismissed. “There was a young lady in need of a small miracle last night, and I believe she dropped this through the post slot earlier this evening.”

Crowley’s eyes narrowed. “Dropped it through the post slot?” 

“It really is a very small matter, and almost entirely coincidence besides," the angel nervously assured him, giving him the little half-smile he reserved for moments when he needed to hide something. Crowley opened his mouth to protest and Aziraphale instantly crumbled. "Oh, all right! She directly asked me for help; I couldn’t very well turn her away!”

“ _Directly!_ ” the demon sputtered, the heat rising in his voice. “What in the Heaven are you talking about? Are you some - some bloody miracle takeaway now?”

“No, nothing of the sort. The webbed-site was only meant to be a small addition to the shop, and even then I'd only anticipated using it for professional queries and consultations. So much is happening these days on the ‘integrated cobweb’ that even I can’t ignore it any longer,” Aziraphale explained with a sheepish grin. 

Rolling his eyes, Crowley hissed, “‘Internet’ is fine, but look, this is a bit beyond the pale, isn’t it? A mortal rings you up, asks for a miracle, you hop-to, and what - they not only know _what you've done_ but they’re dropping off _thank-you notes?!_ ”

“She doesn’t _know_ -”

“Then explain how she found the shop! I thought people couldn’t just go looking for it, and also, how was she _aware_ that you’d messed with her at all? What did you do, make it rain chocolate buttons or something?”

“She was having trouble sleeping. I simply… recommended a bedtime story for her.”

Crowley took a long, slow drink of wine, his unblinking eyes boring holes in his companion. Finally, he spoke: “Right. Fine. Something’s cocked up any way you slice it. The spies of Heaven and Hell all go silent at the exact same time, and then some stupid little miracle you do gets you found by some snot-nosed child-”

“She’s not a child, she-”

“I don’t give a flying fuck if she’s a blue stripey giraffe, Aziraphale! All of this is _bad news_ , don’t you see?!”

“Of course I do,” the angle blistered, noticing his wine glass as if for the first time and reaching for it protectively. “But what do you propose we do other than wait, my dear? I doubt if there is any correlation - in fact, I would be very surprised if we hear from the young lady again. As for the malefic forces against us, we knew there would be trouble some day. I’d only hoped we would have had a bit longer of a reprieve.”

Crowley softened at the threads of sadness fraying the edges of his companion’s words. Setting the empty wine glass down on the end table, he stood and stepped awkwardly over to Aziraphale, taking the angel's glass away and putting it beside its partner. With a show of great apprehension and discomfort, the demon placed a hand on the man’s shoulder and squeezed. The angel smiled tenderly up at him, and Crowley looked away with a flush as Aziraphale placed his hand over top of the demon’s, pressing his cheek against it. They dissolved in the feeling for the briefest of moments, lost in the sensation before conditioning got the better of Crowley.

“Right. Well I’ll be off then,” he dismissed, pulling his hand away and reaching for his jacket at the other end of the sofa. Aziraphale frowned.

“Mind how you go. Ring me if anything…” he trailed off, still transfixed by the phantom impression on his shoulder.

Making a small, two-fingered salute in response, Crowley departed with a forced-casual sway in his step. The angel watched after him until the door was shut, then lifted a hand and made a little motion as though locking the latch from the comfort of his armchair. The deadbolt clicked softly into place from across the shop. Sighing, Aziraphale reached over to the desk beside him and pulled a preservation folio into his lap. The thick folder opened like a flower, and tucked safely at the centre was one of the original five manuscripts of the Trial of Jeanne D’Arc. It was curious that he felt inspired to pull this down from his personal archives today.

Preferring not to believe in coincidence, he slid the small scrap of paper into one of the flaps in the folio and closed it back up, returning it safely to its perch with a little more certainty in his heart.


End file.
